far below, proud and free. Or, indeed, of any world at
all.
It was time. Before the action to come, it would be best to remind them of who they were. He began to read the ancient Family
Rites.
His Ling Aspect had provided the text from ancient times. The planet-bound Citadels of Snowglade had neglected the spacefaring
rites. But here they fitted perfectly.
It was a code black and stern, full of duty and tradition and larded throughout with dire warnings of the punishment which
would befall any Family member who transgressed it.
Many of the arcane passages made no sense to Killeen at all. He read one such without letting the slightest suggestion of
a frown of incomprehension cross his brow. “No Family shall countertack or polyintegrate more than two separable genetic indices
in any one birthing, using artificial means. Penalty for this is expulsion of both parents and child for the lifetime of the
engendered child.”
Now what did
polyintegrate
mean? And how could anyone tinker with the traits of his or her children-to-be? True, Killeen had heard whispered tales of
ancient crafts like that. They were buried in the mists of mankind’s origins in the Great Times. This passage indirectly vouched
for the ancient origin of the Families, which was, he supposed, reassuring. The human vector had been set long ago, and its
opposition to the mechs was a truth which emerged from time immemorial.
Something about the droning passages, saddled with legalisms and prickly with techtenns, caught and held their attention.
The Family stood stiffly with solemn, set faces. As Killeen launched into the long, rolling sentences detailing the depredations
of the mechs, and the valiant efforts every Family member was expected to take to oppose them, they stirred. A boy in the
front row, Loren, had eyes that seemed to fill his face. Tears welled in those eyes and trickled down, unnoticed by the boy.
He had a faraway look, perhaps dreaming of classic battles and brave victories that were to be his.
In a sudden bitter gust Killeen wondered if these old, lofty sentiments would armor Loren against mech shots. He had seen
more than one boy blown to red jelly—or worse,his mind sucked of self, the once-vivid eyes blank and empty.
This sudden lurch of emotion did not make him miss a syllable of the reciting. He went on to the finish, projecting the stern
moral tones that were right and effective, even though within him doubts fought and sputtered.
Now for the added touch:
“In furtherance of these high aims I have a new name to bestow. Tradition grants Cap’ns the right to name a fresh-found star
system. I have already seized this right. The blazing opportunity before us is Abraham’s Star.”
They cheered. Abraham’s legend endured still.
“To the crew of a ship falls the time-honored right to name a discovered world. Your council has picked one hallowed and vibrant—New
Bishop.”
He finished and, following tradition, the Family shouted “Yeasay! Yeasay! Yeasay!” and broke into a raucous symphony of howls
and calls. A few, thinking of the battle ahead, indulged in rude obscenities. Some were ingeniously impossible, describing
acts of unlikely sexual passion between mechs of astounding geometries.
Killeen stepped back, his mind coolly distant from the effect he had sought. Humans could not press the attack without heightened
adrenaline and hormone-driven zest. Mechs could simply switch on, but humans who would risk their lives needed a powerful
cocktail lacing their veins.
Killeen realized now that in these last years he had come to think of the Cap’ncy as a welter of endless detail. To be a good
shipman meant mastering the countless minute but important elements of lifezone regulation, of pressures and flows, servos
and engines. Only the memories of the Aspects had gotten him and his crew through the blizzard of petty mysteries that allowed
life to survive this harshest of all
all.
It was time. Before the action to come, it would be best to remind them of who they were. He began to read the ancient Family
Rites.
His Ling Aspect had provided the text from ancient times. The planet-bound Citadels of Snowglade had neglected the spacefaring
rites. But here they fitted perfectly.
It was a code black and stern, full of duty and tradition and larded throughout with dire warnings of the punishment which
would befall any Family member who transgressed it.
Many of the arcane passages made no sense to Killeen at all. He read one such without letting the slightest suggestion of
a frown of incomprehension cross his brow. “No Family shall countertack or polyintegrate more than two separable genetic indices
in any one birthing, using artificial means. Penalty for this is expulsion of both parents and child for the lifetime of the
engendered child.”
Now what did
polyintegrate
mean? And how could anyone tinker with the traits of his or her children-to-be? True, Killeen had heard whispered tales of
ancient crafts like that. They were buried in the mists of mankind’s origins in the Great Times. This passage indirectly vouched
for the ancient origin of the Families, which was, he supposed, reassuring. The human vector had been set long ago, and its
opposition to the mechs was a truth which emerged from time immemorial.
Something about the droning passages, saddled with legalisms and prickly with techtenns, caught and held their attention.
The Family stood stiffly with solemn, set faces. As Killeen launched into the long, rolling sentences detailing the depredations
of the mechs, and the valiant efforts every Family member was expected to take to oppose them, they stirred. A boy in the
front row, Loren, had eyes that seemed to fill his face. Tears welled in those eyes and trickled down, unnoticed by the boy.
He had a faraway look, perhaps dreaming of classic battles and brave victories that were to be his.
In a sudden bitter gust Killeen wondered if these old, lofty sentiments would armor Loren against mech shots. He had seen
more than one boy blown to red jelly—or worse,his mind sucked of self, the once-vivid eyes blank and empty.
This sudden lurch of emotion did not make him miss a syllable of the reciting. He went on to the finish, projecting the stern
moral tones that were right and effective, even though within him doubts fought and sputtered.
Now for the added touch:
“In furtherance of these high aims I have a new name to bestow. Tradition grants Cap’ns the right to name a fresh-found star
system. I have already seized this right. The blazing opportunity before us is Abraham’s Star.”
They cheered. Abraham’s legend endured still.
“To the crew of a ship falls the time-honored right to name a discovered world. Your council has picked one hallowed and vibrant—New
Bishop.”
He finished and, following tradition, the Family shouted “Yeasay! Yeasay! Yeasay!” and broke into a raucous symphony of howls
and calls. A few, thinking of the battle ahead, indulged in rude obscenities. Some were ingeniously impossible, describing
acts of unlikely sexual passion between mechs of astounding geometries.
Killeen stepped back, his mind coolly distant from the effect he had sought. Humans could not press the attack without heightened
adrenaline and hormone-driven zest. Mechs could simply switch on, but humans who would risk their lives needed a powerful
cocktail lacing their veins.
Killeen realized now that in these last years he had come to think of the Cap’ncy as a welter of endless detail. To be a good
shipman meant mastering the countless minute but important elements of lifezone regulation, of pressures and flows, servos
and engines. Only the memories of the Aspects had gotten him and his crew through the blizzard of petty mysteries that allowed
life to survive this harshest of all
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